


The Day's Unfinished Task

by ishie



Category: Randall and Hopkirk Deceased (1969)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishie/pseuds/ishie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh dear," a voice floated out of the darkness, "wasn't anyone here to greet you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day's Unfinished Task

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dbskyler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dbskyler/gifts).



> dbskyler, you were originally assigned to me based on a BSG Classic match but I rented this series on a whim and totally fell for it. I tried for casefile and this turned up instead. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title swiped from Wordsworth's "Lines suggested by a Portrait..." Thanks to Julie for the beta!

"Where am I?"

Everything was dark as pitch around him, and his voice echoed back from a very short distance away. Starting with his toes, Marty flexed and relaxed every muscle he could control. Definitely awake, then, because his calves didn't so much as flinch and they'd only ever responded in fantastical dreams.

"Hello? Is anyone there?""

He thought he was lying down but it was hard to tell in all that inky black. He tried to roll to his left, then his right, but wherever he was, there was definitely not enough space to move. All he could do was try to flop around like a fish on a riverbank. What was peculiar was that even though he couldn't move, he didn't feel anything holding him down nor did he come into contact with anything as he thrashed. It was as though he was caught in some kind of trap, able to make only the smallest of twitches.

He lay still again, hoping to hear even the slightest whisper of noise. It was then that he realised he couldn't hear or feel the thump of his pulse. Panic started to rise within him as he remembered the ring of his footsteps on the road, then a flash of light and every bone in his body jumping six feet to the left while his flesh stayed relatively still.

"Oh dear," a voice floated out of the darkness, "wasn't anyone here to greet you?"

Marty didn't remember closing his eyes, but suddenly he opened them to find himself sitting upright in a well-upholstered chair in someone's crowded office. There was a cup and saucer resting on his knee, his own hand holding it steady.

"I hope it isn't too strong. I'm a bit out of practise," said the voice again.

Marty looked around but there was no one else in sight. He took in the stacks of papers scattered around the room and across the desk in front of him. On the other side of it was a high-backed chair with delicate spindles and a three-pointed arch. He shifted forward and set the cup and saucer on the shortest of the stacks. "Who are you?" he called. "_Where_ are you?"

There was a rustling noise behind him and he swung round to find a small man standing just inside the door. His silver hair was combed neatly forward and a pince-nez wobbled on the bridge of his nose. The man was clutching yet another stack of papers to his narrow chest.

"Really, I'm terribly sorry about your arrival. We're in a bit of an uproar at the moment," he said, juggling the papers to allow him to stick out a hand. "I'm Simon. Pleasure to meet you."

He rose out of his chair and shook the man's outstretched hand, more out of an automatic reaction than any desire to make the man's acquaintance. "Martin Hopkirk," he replied.

"But you prefer Marty, is that correct?" Simon bustled around the end of the desk and dropped the papers onto its surface as he plopped down into the chair, which dwarfed his small frame. He adjusted his glasses and peered down at the topmost paper. "Yes, Marty. Although I see that you did respond to Martleby for a brief time at school - well! That does sound interesting. I assume there's a story there?"

"One of those silly schoolboy- Wait, how do you know that?"

"Why, it's all right here in your file, Marty. Oh, do sit down, will you? It always makes me nervous to have to speak up to someone."

Marty sat. He waited for Simon to speak again, hopefully to explain what was going on and how he'd gotten into this bizarre situation. He couldn't remember anything past the drive home in the dark, and from the looks of things through the window, at least the entire night and some of the next day had passed. The sun was shining brightly outside, angling through the glass and highlighting motes of dust as they floated through the air.

When Simon started riffling through his papers instead, Marty cleared his throat. "Look, could you-" he began.

"How do you like your clothes?" Simon smoothed down the front of his own sky blue shirt. "I think the lighter colours really suit you. Much better than all that black everyone insists on wearing. But I tell you, I had a devil of a time finding a coat to match those trousers."

A bell chimed overhead and Simon coloured. He pulled a fat ledger out of a desk drawer and scribbled something inside. "Sorry about that," he said. "Forget where I am sometimes. One picks up the worst habits in this line of work, you know."

Marty let his irritation bubble up. "What line of work? Where _are_ we?"

"Oh, that's right, you didn't get a proper welcome." Simon put the ledger away and steepled his hands. "You're in the Afterlife. Well, really, you're in one of the Waiting Rooms at the moment, but you'll be moving on soon enough."

"The _what_?" Marty stood and stumbled away from the desk. "I don't know what the hell you're playing at-"

The bell chimed again. Simon waved a hand.

"Don't worry about that," he said. "They look the other way for new arrivals."

"But I'm not! I can't be...." Marty couldn't make himself say the word. He lunged for the door and flung it open, stopping short just before he tumbled over the threshold and into the cloudy expanse on the other side.

Far, far below he could make out what appeared to be the curve of the Earth, a tiny patchwork of blues, browns, and greens. He clung to the door frame as his head spun. Simon grasped him by the back of the coat, pulling him back inside and slamming the door closed again.

The padded chair was reassuringly solid under him when Marty collapsed into it. He took the cup and saucer Simon pressed on him, his nerveless fingers barely registering the weight of it.

"There, just drink your tea. Everything's better with a nice hot cuppa, yes? I'm making a terrible hash of this, and I do apologise. It's just that you took us by surprise this evening."

"Took _you_ by surprise?" Marty spluttered. "How d'you think I feel?!"

"Anxious? Frightened? Angry?" He trailed to a stop when Marty glared. "Ah. Hypothetical question, was it?"

With a last fluttering pat to Marty's shoulder, Simon went round the desk again and sat. "Let's just start with the basics, shall we? I'm sorry to say - goodness, I do seem to be apologising rather a lot tonight. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but you've died, Marty. The details are rather gruesome so we'll leave it at that."

"But _how_?"

As soon as he asked the question, Marty felt the hair on the back of his neck stand straight out. He did know how it happened, remembering again the sick crunch of his own bones and the ground rushing up to meet him, the glare of the headlights swinging away as the heavy black saloon roared down the road.

Simon smiled sadly and shuffled around some papers, not meeting his eyes. Marty sat forward, the tea sloshing over the rim of the cup and into the saucer.

"It was that bastard Sorrensen, wasn't it?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to confirm or deny, Marty."

"Oh, what's the use? It's not like it'll do any good, seeing as how I'm apparently _dead_."

"That's the spirit!" Simon cheered. "Stiff upper lip and all that, eh?"

The tea was, remarkably, still warm as he took a long drink. The china rattled delicately when he set the cup down again. Marty thought of arguing, of insisting that Simon stop playing whatever cruel joke was in the offing, but he knew the truth of it deep within him. The empty silence where his heartbeat should have been echoed round his head, knocking other thoughts loose.

"Jeannie!" he croaked, fear gripping his midsection. "She wasn't with me, was she?"

"No, of course not," Simon soothed. "Jeannie is as well as can be expected given the circumstances. You could..." he trailed off and peered at Marty over the rim of his spectacles. "No, I'm getting ahead of myself again. Are you all right to continue on with your orientation?"

Marty's head was still spinning, torn between sorrow at what Jeannie must be going through and a burning anger at his circumstances. He nodded shortly, not trusting his voice.

Simon straightened his papers again and started talking, the words all but falling from his mouth as he sped through what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech on the nature of the universe and what to expect when you suddenly find yourself dead. Marty paid him little heed. He kept seeing the flash of the headlights and a seemingly random series of muddled images: fat pink lips surrounded by gingery whiskers, a crowd of people kneeling over him, the dark shape of the driver inside the heavy saloon. There was something else, something just out of reach.

"-of course, we do understand that the newly arrived often feel the need to check to see that their affairs are being settled-"

His _accident_ must have been Sorrensen's doing, Marty thought. His wife had been their only client in weeks and all that business about her heart condition... Jeff had said she had taken to her bed but seemed in relatively good health otherwise - surely if she had been days away from death there would have been more overt signs of her frailty. No, she had definitely met with foul play and Marty had been hard on Sorrensen's trail.

"-and as such, there is a loophole you might be able to take advantage of," Simon said, startling Marty back to the conversation.

"A loophole? To do what?"

"To say your goodbyes," was the patient reply. "Lots of new arrivals don't get that chance but considering that you were, well, murdered, if you'll pardon my bluntness-"

"Goodbyes? D'you mean in person?"

"More in spirit, but yes. There are restrictions, of course-"

"I'll do it. How soon can I go?"

"Well, r-right now," Simon stuttered. "We should go over some of the restrictions first-"

Marty shook his head. "No need. Won't take me above five minutes to bid my fond farewells. I'll just pop down there and pop right back. You won't even miss me!"

Simon started to argue but a shrill ringing emanated from under the papers on his desk, cutting him off in mid-sentence. He swept aside several teetering stacks, sending the papers crashing to the floor, and picked up the telephone receiver. "Yes, of course," he said into the 'phone. "I'll bring him directly."

After replacing the receiver he sighed, picked up the papers he'd brought in with him, and stood. "Come on, then," he said to Marty, who stood and started for the door.

"No, not that way. Just follow me."

Marty swung back around to ask how he was supposed to do that (through the window? It would hardly be the most absurd thing to happen that day) but the other man had disappeared. He turned in a circle, taking in the entire crowded room. "How in God's name am I supposed to follow?" he shouted above the chiming bell. "Where've you gone?"

He screwed his eyes shut and made an exasperated noise, only to find himself in a completely different crowded little room when he opened them again.

Simon was perched on the edge of the new desk, telephone receiver pressed between his ear and shoulder. Covering the mouthpiece, he said with a broad smile, "I knew you'd be a quick study! Hang on a tick, just getting approvals for the last of your clearances."

Marty jammed his hands in his pockets and studied the lone painting on the wall, a rather bland and uninspired seascape. It seemed that even the Afterlife took a dim view on some of the more modern modes of decorating. Jeannie would have a fit if she could see it.

At the thought of his wife, Marty felt a peculiar pinching in the centre of his chest. All this being dead business was disheartening enough; the thought of being separated from Jeannie for even a day was too much to bear. He thought of her smooth pink skin, the rough scratch of her hair under his hand as he ruined whatever towering style she'd created, the tiny smile that curved her lips as she cuddled up to him late at night. He wanted to make sure she was all right, that the shock hadn't been too much for her. That Jeff was taking care of her-

Jeff! Yes, that was it! He would have to see Jeff as well while he was down there, both to say goodbye and to set him on the right path to make sure that Marty's murderer didn't go free.

Simon put down the 'phone and hopped down off the desk. "Right, you're nearly ready to head back down. Before you go-" and he held up his hands to forestall whatever arguments Marty might try "- before you go, you must listen to me. This isn't as simple as popping in to visit an old friend for a moment on your way somewhere else. Afterlife visitations work very differently to everything else you've ever known."

Marty did his best to pay attention, or at least look like he was paying attention. His thoughts were whirling, trying to remember everything that had happened over his last day or two, and how much of it he'd already told Jeff.

"You have two options," Simon said. "You can either visit a number of people who won't be able to see or hear you, only to feel your presence and take whatever comfort they can from it. Or, and this is a far less popular option, you can single out one person who will be able to see and hear you. I'd caution you not to choose that-"

"Too bad, because that's the one I want." Marty rocked back on his heels and shot the other man a grin that almost felt natural. "I choose Jeff Randall. That's two Fs and two Ls, in case you need to fill out some paperwork."

"No need for that," Simon sighed. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Absolutely!"

 

Simon turned the 'phone round on the desk, pointing the dial toward Marty. "You just need to ring him up to get started. Once you've contacted him, you'll be able to draw him to you, wherever that might be. I'd suggest you start at your grave - it usually requires less explaining, and you're virtually assured of some privacy. Don't be alarmed if you have some trouble remembering what's happened once you get there. The visitation process can be quite jarring, and you're still very newly dead so it will take some time to connect all the dots, as it were."

Marty reached forward, impatient now to get back down to Earth and set Jeff on the hunt for his murderer. But just as he drew near enough to take up the receiver, Simon wrapped a bony hand around his wrist, stilling the movement.

"There are only two things you _must_ remember," Simon insisted. "First, you must return to your grave before sunrise each day you are walking among them. If you don't, you'll be shut out and unable to return to the Waiting Rooms. Have you memorised the poem?"

He gave a aggrieved sigh when Marty shook his head. "I keep forgetting you haven't been properly orientated. Now listen carefully: _Before the sun shall arise anew, each ghost unto his grave must go. Cursed be the ghost who dared to stay and face the awful light of day. He shall not to the grave return, until a hundred years be gone._ Have you got that?"

"Oh, that old thing," Marty bluffed. "No worries, Simon! Memorised that back in nursery school." He shook off the hand on his wrist and clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. "I'll be back before you know it, and you can give me the full tour, all right?"

Simon said something in return but Marty was already putting the receiver to his ear and dialling Jeff's number. Everything else faded away as he focused on convincing his friend to come away to meet him, something rather more difficult than he'd expected. It took three tries, and then a confusing interval when he dialled and somehow connected with Jeff's subconscious long enough to rouse him from sleep and send him on his way.

As the connection broke, he felt a sharp tug on the top of his head that rapidly sped down to the rest of his body. The cramped little Waiting Room melted into inky blackness once more, until he landed with a jarring thud atop a hard-packed grave. His own grave, by the feel of it. He had to fight against its pull, to remember why he'd come all this way. Why he was forgoing the chance to speak to Jeannie one last time.

Within moments, Jeff came shambling along toward him, his ridiculous sandals catching on the pebbled path. Marty felt that same peculiar pinching feeling in his chest as the moonlight brightened his friend's face, highlighting the bags under his eyes and the pallor of his skin. It looked like he hadn't slept properly in days.

Was he doing the right thing by coming here, Marty wondered. Should he simply give in? Let the grave pull him down into the ground and back to the Waiting Rooms? Give Jeff the dubious comfort of believing it all a dream?

He sat up, catching Jeff's still hazy eye. The brief spark of interest that lit his dearest friend's face gave him all the answer he needed. There was still a mystery to be solved - even if it was his _own_ murder - and there was no one better to do it.


End file.
